


First Kiss

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: So Much Trouble [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dominance, First Kiss, Fix-It, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Not Beta Read, Power Imbalance, Slow Burn, Starker D/s, Submission, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Read at your own risk.  If you're here for the legal-age smut, it's coming.  If you don't like smut at all, you- you should really learn how to read tags.Peter makes his move.~~~Peter nods, and leans back against the nearest workbench, watching Mr. Stark’s eyes travel up and down his body and trying to figure out how to go from this space between them to no space between them at all.  “Yes, sir,” he says, and Tony’s eyes darken in an interesting way and he takes a step closer.  Oh.  Peter can work with that, he’s had- so very many fantasies, he can absolutely work within those parameters.
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: So Much Trouble [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562707
Comments: 32
Kudos: 169





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read because I have no idea how you even start that relationship. Starting this one was hard enough, to be honest.
> 
> Triggers aplenty here, let me know if I missed one and I can add more tags and warnings.
> 
> NOT ENDGAME COMPLIANT. (Let's be real here, this AU is barely MCU compliant.)
> 
> For completionists, DEAD DOVE warning, this series is going to be EXPLICIT D/s Starker. Once Peter's of age, there will be sex, is what I'm saying. BE WARNED. 
> 
> For prudes, these are fictional characters and I've double checked, no one actually has a skeevy real-life relationship as a result of this series, so, like, relax. No one is going to get hurt. They're not real.

It’s Peter’s assigned weekend to be at the Tower, and he’s already met May for lunch and chatted with Mr. Fantastic for a few hours. Mr. Stark has claimed his evening by saying, “Lab?” at dinner, and Peter is eager to get back to his spider-soaker-grenades, named and simulated, but not yet actually run in real life.   
  
They’re in the workshop, Mr. Stark fucking around with his test-run-of-the-week, too, when suddenly there’s shrapnel flying and oil spurting and Mr. Stark shouts, “Jesus, kid, we do not have robots here for clean up!”

Peter sighs, disappointed. “Sorry, Mr. Stark, I’ll, I’ll clean it up.” Between the rips and the embedded metal and the oil slick, his Thor “Put the Hammer Down” shirt is trashed, though. He scrubs at the jeans, which drip onto the floor in puddles. “Shit.”

Mr. Stark ambles over, saying, “Yeah, that’s not coming out, those clothes are trashed,” and Peter freezes a moment, hands tucked in the waistband of his jeans. “Shit,” he swears. “I don’t- this isn’t the Compound, I don’t have clothes in this lab.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll drown in ‘em but I have some,” offers Mr. Stark. Peter twitches and his voice squeaks as he repeats, “Your clothes, Mr. Stark?”

There’s a strange huskiness to Mr Stark’s voice as he teases, “Yes, Peter, my clothes. Shirt, pants, even underroos if you’ve somehow managed to get those filthy, too.”

Peter twitches at that thought, of getting his underwear filthy for Mr Stark, his stupid imagination suddenly in overdrive, and the silence has stretched a second or two too long, so he blurts, “uh, no, I, the-the suit, I mostly wear the suit, Mr. S-Stark.” He slips out of the jeans, tossing them in the trash.

Mr. Stark stills, standing with his back to Peter by a drawer in the wall, most likely containing spare clothes. “You wear the suit?” He asks, his voice oddly strained, “Against- under- you wear it on your skin?”

“It’s self-cleaning,” protests Peter faintly.

“Are you getting dirty in it?” Mr. Stark asks, quietly, like he can’t help himself, and then mutters, heartfelt, “ _ Fuck _ .”   
  
Peter has fuck-all idea how to respond to that question. The silence in the workshop is absolute and he can  _ hear _ Mr. Stark’s heart start racing. His own is beating strangely in his ears. He turns, slowly, to look at Mr. Stark’s back, where it’s hunched over the drawer and he thinks,  _ oh.  _ Oh. He thought- he thought it was a crush, a thing, just him- he thought, he thought Mr. Stark was being nice, kind, to just ignore the- ignore Peter’s-  _ oh _ .   
  
“S-sometimes,” he offers, fingers twitching, and it feels like he’s leaping off a building with worn-out webshooters, he has no idea what he’s doing here, and based on the way Mr. Stark’s hands touching the drawer suddenly tighten, heart rate ticking up again, he’s not sure Mr. Stark knows, either. “S-sometimes, Mr. Stark,” he says, walking closer, head tilted at an angle. He can feel his erection just like, bloom, and he knows from long experience that the suit is shit at hiding it. But if he’s going to be bold, he’s not going to care about things like that, okay?   
  
Mr. Stark slowly turns from the drawer, watching Peter approach him with eyes that are intense with some emotion, Peter would say  _ fear, _ but it’s calmer than that. “Sometimes,” Mr. Stark repeats in a whisper, and to Peter’s sensitive hearing, the word is like a caress of susurrations, all sibilants and silk.   
  
Peter nods, and leans back against the nearest workbench, watching Mr. Stark’s eyes travel up and down his body and trying to figure out how to go from this space between them to no space between them at all. “Yes, sir,” he says, and Tony’s eyes darken in an interesting way and he takes a step closer.  _ Oh. _ Peter can  _ work _ with that, he’s had- so very many fantasies, he can  _ absolutely  _ work within those parameters. “Mr.- Mr. Stark,” he says quietly, “Could you help? I- the shirt, it’s caught, I think, some shrapnel, sir.” If he places a slight emphasis on the  _ sir _ , well, he’s wanted to for months now, probably years, he’d have to ask MJ.    
  
They both know he can rip the shirt off. He’ll do it, if Mr. Stark suggests it. There’s a kind of inevitability here, a knife’s edge between one way and the other, and Peter ignores that there’s maybe a third way, that involves Mr. Stark  _ laughing _ and  _ kicking him out of the lab _ .   
  
Mr. Stark walks forward, stalks, really, until he’s standing just a little too close, so close that Peter can imagine he feels the body heat pouring off him. He makes no move to do anything but stand there, so Peter looks up at him, and he’s standing so close Peter has to look through his lashes a bit. “Mr.- Mr. Stark? Please?” he asks, tugging on the hem of his shirt.   
  
Mr. Stark tilts his head and murmurs, “Please, what, again, Peter Parker?”

_ Oh. _ Peter knows a straight line when he hears one. Daring, he whispers, “Just one? Can I- please, Mr. Stark, just one? I-I won’t-” and he tips forward, stretching up, on his toes.    
  
“One what?” whispers Mr. Stark back to him, not leaning in, his lips so close to Peter’s, but he’s not giving an inch. “One, what, little Peter Parker?”   
  
Peter groans a little, and can feel his face flush. He opens his eyes- when did he close them?- and says, “Please, Mr. Stark, please let me kiss you, please, sir,” and watches Tony’s pupils blow wide with lust before he closes the last inch and presses his lips to Tony’s. Peter’s nerves are on fire, he can feel every individual hair in Tony’s goatee and mustache as they brush against his chin and lips. It feels  _ amazing,  _ and then it gets better, because Tony is parting his lips and sliding his tongue smoothly and Peter has been kissed before, but never- never like  _ this _ .   
  
Tony’s knee inserts itself between Peter’s legs, and applies pressure, and that causes sparks to fly in Peter’s brain and he grunts into the kiss, and Tony swallows up that noise greedily, fingers flying to cup Peter’s face as Peter clutches on to his shoulders. Peter whimpers, loving it, loving the way Mr. Stark’s fingers gently trace one ear while his tongue- it’s the best kiss of Peter’s life and it couldn’t be less chaste, it’s positively filthy and Peter loves it, grinding back on Tony’s thigh a little helplessly.

Tony’s fingers twitch, buried in the hair at the nape of his neck, and Peter thinks giddily,  _ Aunt May is wrong, I do not need a haircut, I am never cutting my hair again, _ as his spine arches away from- into- away from those small points of very definite contact after  _ so many months _ of thinking about this touch. Tony hums a little, deep and somehow dark, and his fingers do more than twitch and Peter is- Peter can’t- he’s having a little trouble, the pressure in his stomach, in his  _ dick _ , it’s more than he was prepared for.   
  
Tony’s- Mr. Stark’s- Tony’s fingers seize one last time and then release, grabbing him by the back of his t-shirt and pulling him away to dangle and Peter gasps at the sudden access to oxygen and opens his eyelids to let in some of the light. When did he shut his eyes? He can tell-whoa- that they are very dilated.  _ Ow. _   
  
“FRIDAY, lights down,” rasps Mr. Stark, easing back minutely and there are stars in Peter’s vision and his throat is closing up with what he’s pretty sure is the emotion fucking  _ bereft _ . “70%. Peter, kid, I need- I need a moment, I need you to just- to just- a moment.”

“I’m- I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter gasps, the world crashing down around him. In exactly zero of his fantasies had Mr. Stark stopped and  _ asked for a moment _ . This was so stupid. Mr. Stark is going to- MJ was right, you do NOT kiss your coworkers and it’s not like there’s another superhero team Peter can join and-    
  
“Just. A. Damn. Minute,” Tony orders, his voice rough. “Stop thinking. Stop- just-” and he gives the back of the shirt a shake, and it’s, it’s not gentle, and Peter’s dick twitches and he thinks this is exactly how he’s going to die, of embarrassment, here, in this lab. “Just. Stop a minute. Let me do the thinking. Please.”   
  
Peter feels his body still, all thoughts kind of- shunted to one side, waiting- and he pants.   
  
Mr. Stark rubs his mouth with the hand not still fisting Peter’s fucking destroyed Thor t-shirt. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and when he opens them, they shoot lasers of emotions Peter can’t even identify into his eyes, and Peter, to his horror, feels his own eyes start to film over with tears and Jesus, this is not the way to make a great adult first impression. He thinks,  _ I mean, I didn’t cum, _ but then his over-honest brain adds,  _ yet. _   
  
Mr. Stark hums a little, deep in his chest, and then chuckles darkly, “So it’s like that, huh? Called it.” Peter can feel two things- one, his dick is definitely interested in that ironic laugh, and two, there’s a blush creeping up his neck because that tone of voice- just this side of dismissive- is really doing it for him, and  _ what is wrong with him? _   
  
“You,” Mr. Starks says, then takes a deep breath, and shifts his weight, which, the point of contact where Peter’s dick is trapped against his thigh just lights up and Peter feels his eyelids flutter shut. “You are trouble in a very fun package,” Mr. Stark continues, “But I think that’s enough for right now and I’m going to need you- I need you to understand two things, right now, Peter. One, so help me God, I know I am a monster, but you are killing me here, and two, you are amazing and you have done nothing- not one thing-to apologize for. Do you understand?” and he gives Peter another shake, gentler this time.   
  
Peter does not understand a single word that Mr. Stark just said. His oversensitive body, primed with every hair reporting for duty, trembles as the friction from that shake directs a lot of electrical energy straight to his dick, and he gasps.   
  
“Fuck,” growls Mr. Stark, and he pushes back into Peter’s space, kissing and growling words into his mouth in the roughest, most Sexiest Man Alive voice Peter has ever heard, “You. Are incredible. You are. Jesus. Peter, I need you to just NOT be you for like, for like ten seconds while I just think, ok?” And his hand, which has not stopped fisting the back of Peter’s shirt, clenches again and pulls him back and this time Mr. Stark drops his head and his breath is explosive in the silence of the lab.   
  
“Who- who should I be, sir?” asks Peter, trying for a light tone and failing. It comes out just breathless, which, okay, given how close he is to making a mess inside the suit against Mr. Stark’s million dollar jeans, it was a good effort.   
  
“Fuck,” exhales Mr. Stark, and abruptly pushes back, leaving Peter sprawled back against the lab station, chest heaving, a wet spot of pre-cum dripping down his stomach and he hopes to God it is not showing on the outside of the suit. “Five minutes. You- you stay right there, I stay right here and you do not- just- no. No talking.”   
  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” whispers Peter. He is fucking this up, he always fucks everything up, this is, he shouldn’t  _ want _ these things. This is a  _ workplace _ . They are  _ sciencebros _ .   
  
“No. Talking,” grates Mr. Stark, holding up a hand and putting it resolutely on Peter’s chest. Peter’s lips close with a wet snap of sound. “Yes. Good boy. Thank you,” huffs Mr. Stark. “Just. Just do that. There. Fuck.” He runs his other hand through his hair and Peter can hear the laugh start in Mr. Stark’s chest before it hisses out between his teeth. “Okay. Look, I am the last person who should be giving you this speech but fuck if it isn’t what’s going to happen and then you and I are going to spend a lot of time talking, okay?”   
  
He seems to be waiting for a response so Peter nods, trying to convey that he is confused and contrite and game for whatever Mr. Stark thinks is best.   
  
Mr. Stark sighs again and says, very quietly, “You know what you want, and I am not fucking hypocritical enough to question your right to go after it- but- and this is huge, Peter, I am clinging here on like a thread, okay, so listen- but you are not actually legal, jailbait.”   
  
Peter flushes with shame, his whole body hunching forward, Mr. Stark’s hand a burning brand against his chest, holding him upright.   
  
“Hey, hey, listen, I’m not done here,” says Mr. Stark, leaning in closer somehow, his arm bending just slightly, but not allowing the distance between them to close. “And that wouldn’t matter at all, and I would be destroying your absolutely maddening innocence on this floor, this fucking floor right now, so help me, except I am not seventeen, okay, kid? And I promised Pepper she wouldn’t have to cover up any illegal activities this quarter.”   
  
Pepper. Ms. Potts. Shit. Peter didn’t- how could he forget- he feels the wince cut through the taut tension that had suddenly hit when Mr. Stark- Tony- Mr. Stark said said “destroying” with that ache in his voice. It’s just, the Mr. Stark here, in the lab, he’s covered in grease and jeans and his hair is everywhere and he’s so rude and crude, and the Tony Stark that belongs with Ms. Potts has like, a PhD in suave and fleek. They’re like two different men.   
  
Except they’re not. And Peter only met Ms. Potts once and now he’s down here humping himself on her  _ boyfriend _ and Peter is a piece of shit and his chest heaves once, and he makes the smallest tiny gasp of a cry before he seals his lips again.   
  
“Hey, hey, no, no, that’s, that’s, you gotta give me something here, kid, you gotta say something now,” coaxes Mr. Stark, swaying towards Peter and his tone is so soft, so soft when it’s usually all bright and shiny and that’s- that’s even worse than wrong. Peter shakes his head, it’s taking everything he has not to let more sound escape, breathing heavily through his nose. “What’s going on inside that head, I can’t, I can’t fix this if I don’t… you haven’t done anything wrong, Peter, it was- I was- I’m the one who shouldn’t- I shouldn’t- Peter, you’re like, and I’m a fucking monster, okay, I’m a wreck, and I’m not, I can’t be that guy, ok?”   
  
Peter focuses on breathing, focuses on Mr. Stark’s hand on his chest, which hasn’t moved since he set it there.    
  
Mr. Stark leans in and now his tone is coaxing, “C’mon, kid, c’mon, let me in, let me, tell me, just, say something, ok, say something so I know we’re ok.”   
  
And that’s wrong, too. Mr. Stark shouldn’t be- Peter should, “‘M okay,” bursts out of his lips and it sounds underwater, he’s so close to losing it. Mr. Stark sighs and mutters, “Not the most convincing, Parker,” but somehow the tension in his voice is different and Peter is back on solid ground and he vents a short, huffy laugh.    
  
They stay that way, in silence, Peter struggling to breathe normal and struggling to sort out everything he’s heard and everything he’s done and match it up to what he knows is right, and Mr. Stark silent and still, one arm stretched, fingers planted in the center of Peter’s chest, right over his heart.   
  
After a minute, Mr. Stark mutters, “Fuck it,” and pulls Peter into a hug.   
  
Peter closes his eyes and lets his head just sink against Mr. Stark’s shoulder, grateful for their difference in height, grateful for the strength of Mr. Stark’s frame, wrapping him up and holding the world at bay for a moment. Grateful for a lot of things, most of which, at heart, boil down to, even though Peter fucked up- fucked up royally- Mr. Stark doesn’t seem to want to fire him. Not that he ever hired him, officially.

They stay like that for long enough that there’s no tension in Peter’s shoulders anymore, when Mr. Stark says, resting his cheek on top of Peter’s head, “Ok. Ok. How much do you trust me, Parker?”   
  
Peter snorts, “Mr. Stark, are you seriously asking me that right now?”   
  
“What I am about to do is going to seem like a very bad idea from your point of view, and it’s probably going to be terrifying as fuck, but trust me on this one, it’s the best call ever. Do you trust me to make this call?”   
  
Peter rolls his eyes. “You’re trusting my judgment? Right now?”   
  
There’s a small pause and Mr. Stark says softly, his voice deep and serious and his heartbeat steady like a metronome, “Peter Parker, there is nothing wrong with what you want, and I am going to get you what you want, I swear, but step one is a doozy and I need to know you’re in a space where you can trust me not to try to hurt you right now, so answer me.”   
  
Peter takes a deep breath, and says in a broken voice, “Yessir. Yes. Yes, Mr. Stark, I trust you.”   
  
“Okay. FRIDAY, get Pep down here.”   
  
Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Ms. Potts is in the lab, Peter has peeled out of the shirt and his suit, figuring what the fuck, it’s caused a lot of awkward tonight, and thrown on a whole set of Tony’s spare clothes, rolling the pants up the ankles when he realizes it’s that or trip on them. He’s ignoring Mr. Stark, who had shoved the clothes at him and turned his back, tinkering with something at the electrical bench. Peter’s hands are still kinda shaky and when the door hisses open his spidersenses go wild, so clearly he’s still running through some adrenaline here, but he holds it together.

Kinda.

Ms. Potts is still in a fancy suit dress thing, although she’s wearing slippers, and Peter watches her eyes go from exasperated to interested as she looks Tony up and down and then does the same to him.    
  
“Hm,” she says, and when she says it that way, it makes Peter blush. “Called it,” she announces to Tony.   
  
“No, okay, yes, you can be smug later, thank you, but I need you here to help, okay, I am fucking this up, and I need it to get unfucked and so I called you, this is why I pay you, fix this,” retorts Tony, fiddling with a wrench near the electrical bench.

“You can’t seriously expect me to just wave my hand-”   
  
“Pep, please, I don’t-”   
  
“I barely even know him, and I’ll have you know, I am hip deep in it with our Thai suppliers and anyway, I pay me now, you are the worst boyfriend in the history of forgotten anniversaries-”   
  
“Please, Pep,” interrupts Mr. Stark, flinching and smiling his widest, most clearly in love smile at the same time and Peter has seen them fight several times, there’s so many interviews of them talking over each other, but he’s never seen this, and his stomach hurts, as Mr. Stark says, “It’s my birthday. It’s Christmas, he’s so- please. Please help.”   
  
“Perfect,” sighs Ms. Potts. She arches an eyebrow at Peter, who scrunches and tries to make himself look as non-threatening and non-boyfriend-stealing as possible. “Okay. Step one is you go get us some food. Warm. A lot of it. Three glasses, one bottle of wine, white. And we’re all going to go up to the living room and talking. Like adults, right Peter?”   
  
Peter nods. She’s the scariest thing he’s ever seen and he would pretty much agree to anything right now, and he’s still not sure how this- this whole thing- is not completely fucked, but Tony and now Pepper are handling it so calmly, he just kind of plans to hope for the best here.   
  
“No phones,” she orders, and both men drop their Starkphones to the floor, and then exchange equal glances of guilt and that’s when Peter realizes for all he’s certain Ms. Potts can fix it, Tony is equally certain  _ he _ is fucking it all up,  _ too _ . The realization makes Peter relax a little, because he’s not the only fuck up in the room. He watches Mr. Stark watch him relax, and sees the moment when something inside Mr. Stark relaxes, too. It brings a warm glimmer of something to Peter’s chest, and then his stomach growls and the moment is lost.   
  
“Okay, I gave you like five seconds for that look, pick up the phones, turn them off, and follow me, gentlemen,” says Ms. Potts, turning on her heel and heading for the door.   
  
Mr. Stark pivots, all energy again, and demands FRIDAY provide some Russian pel’meni with all the trimmings in fifteen minutes to the suite or he’ll turn her into a lunch account spreadsheet at the local elementary school, gesturing- herding- Ms. Potts ahead of him, and Peter scrambles to follow.

~~~

Upstairs, Ms. Potts directs Peter to rearrange the furniture in the living room space, moving aside a loveseat and pushing a couch next to the big sectional, at an angle. “Perfect. Room for everyone to sit comfortably. Sit, Peter,” she directs, patting the sectional. “Right here. I promise this is going to be awkward and I also promise you are going to have to get used to that.”   
  
Peter has never had anyone so casually use his superstrength for such a mundane task. He’s done it himself, he rearranged his room here at the Tower six times before he was happy with it, but there’s something about the way she casually expected him to follow her directions and heft the huge, overstuffed loveseat that makes him feel caught under a microscope. Exposed. Seen. Dissected. She sits on the couch, tucks her legs up under her, and pats his knee, making him feel about 12. “Tony?” she yells gently.   
  
“Yeah, wine, the 2005, three glasses, got it, uncorking-” there’s a popping sound “-as we speak,” Mr. Stark finishes, walking into the room. “FRIDAY, count on the pel’meni?”   
  
“Arriving momentarily,” responds the AI.   
  
“Good. Greatness,” mumbles Tony, slouching in to sit opposite Pepper and far too close to Peter on the sectional. Peter could kick him from here without even straining. Pepper lifts her face for a kiss and Tony grumbles but then drops more than one on her lips and then pauses, wine glasses still in his left hand and the bottle in his right and leans his forehead on hers and whispers, “Thank you.”   
  
“You’re welcome, Tony,” she says quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And you’re welcome, too, young man, although you shouldn’t thank me until we’re done here.”   
  
A drone swoops in from the hallway before Peter can untangle that statement to figure out if he should still say thank you, and deposits a backpack on the couch next to Pepper, who immediately and efficiently distributes three take out containers and plastic forks between them while Mr. Stark pours the wine. He passes one to Pepper, who takes a sip and smiles, murmuring, “Flattery, Mr. Stark,” and Peter watches a grin flicker across Mr. Stark's face as he picks up the second glass and holds it out to Peter. “Big boys get big boy toys,” he intones, his face mocking and serious at the same time, “but this is one, only one, because while you have saved the world- a lot- you are still not 21 and we are neither in international waters nor Tijuana nor Denmark. One, Parker.”   
  
Peter nods his head. There’s clearly something Mr. Stark is trying to say here, but it’s going over his head a little and the smell of the take out is taking up a lot of electrical impulses in his brain.   
  
Ms. Potts wastes no time digging in to her take out, her eyes fluttering shut on the first bite as she says, “Fyodor. Tony, I swear-”   
  
“Back from his trip to Greece, just got back today,” remarks Mr. Stark, pouring himself a glass and setting the bottle down on the ground. “Only been open for like 2 hours. Good catch.”

“Bless that man,” agrees Ms. Potts.   
  
Peter opens his box and begins digging his way through it, taking careful sips of the wine because he definitely missed what Mr. Stark was emphasizing and so the wine makes him feel guilty, like even sipping it is getting away with anything.   
  
After a few bites, Ms. Potts sighs and says, “This is not even the weirdest thing you’ve called me in to negotiate. Remember those twins? The- the, what were they, ambassador’s kids?”   
  
Tony hums for a moment, mouth full, swallows, and chokes out, “Military attache to Italy.”   
  
“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” she says, her tone mocking. She turns to Peter and points her fork at him. He freezes and stares back at her. “You are not even the weirdest thing yet. You make sense, at least. And I don’t have to deal with diplomats, I hate when things get all political.”   
  
“You love when things get political,” corrects Tony, taking a long sip of his wine.   
  
“I do,” Pepper admits, “But not when it’s also our bottom line. I like my imports, thank you.”   
  
Peter ventures, “I make sense? Because nothing about this-” he waves his fork vaguely around the three of them “makes any sense to me. Why aren’t you mad at me, ma’am?” he blurts out.   
  
Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts share a smile over their wine glasses and then, like clockwork, both turn their delighted smiles on him. “Peter,” asks Ms. Potts, in a quiet, happy tone, “Did you think you were being subtle?”   
  
“What? I- I mean, what do you- I didn’t- this wasn’t like, a plan or-” stutters Peter, panicking.   
  
Mr. Stark laughs, a full throated sound that does delightfully wicked things to Peter’s spine. “Obviously.”   
  
“What Mr. Stark here is trying and failing to explain,” says Ms. Potts, carefully enunciating her words and watching Peter closely, “is that he is a wicked, bad, immoral man.” Peter glances at Mr. Stark, who is smiling sunnily at Ms. Potts and nodding along. “Mr. Stark, in fact, has been trying very very hard to be very very good where you’re concerned for a lot of reasons, which we will be circling back to, but you have not been making it easy for him. Well, look at you,” she waves a hand at him, encompassing, Peter is acutely aware, her boyfriend’s jeans and his Guns’n’Roses t-shirt. “You’re pretty much his favorite flavor of fuck,” and Peter gasps when he hears the word fall from her still-pristinely drawn lips, the “ck” clipped off and crisp. He glances at Mr. Stark sideways, but Mr. Stark is still eating, chewing and chewing and not looking back at him, so Peter applies himself to his box.   
  
“As to why I am not mad with however the big reveal played out in the playroom,” she says, voice still smiling and delighted, “I knew who I was getting into this relationship with. I was Tony’s PA for years, Peter, I sometimes feel like there are no surprises left.”   
  
Tony makes a hurt noise and she pats him on the knee, taking a sip from her wine glass, “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean I have personally spotted, invited, smoothed over, unruffled, and thrown out every single ex that has gravitated to Tony’s orbit for the last decade. I know him,” she says simply, “and you are 100%  _ designed _ for his weakest spots.”   
  
“Christmas, birthday,” agrees Tony, still refusing to look at Peter, tucked up into the corner of the sectional and feeling so exposed.   
  
“I love Tony, and he loves me, and more importantly, he listens to me, and he tries to be better for me, and I support him and challenge him and we are so solid, Peter, I could probably tell you his heart rate when I’m falling asleep in Japan and he’s over here fighting werewolves or whatever.” She says this like it’s very important and Peter feels worse and worse until she leans over and puts her hand on his knee and says, “And that means I know exactly how much he is struggling not to grab you out from that corner you are trying to disappear into and pull you onto his lap.”   
  
Peter turns to stare at Mr. Stark, his mouth dropping open slightly, his eyes wide. Ms. Potts sits back, sipping her wine and discarding her takeout container. Mr. Stark finishes chewing, sets his carton aside, takes a long sip of the wine, and turns to face Peter, bracing his chin on his hands and Peter is shocked by the intensity of his dark eyes. “Just to, the hug helped, it- fuck- I just- you look terrified.” He sounds like he’s apologizing for wanting to be nice and Peter, remembering all the nice gifts and the way Tony- Mr. Stark- Tony had run his fingers through Peter’s hair and held on tight and devoured him, he cannot understand that right now.   
  
“I  _ am _ fucking terrified,” Peter stammers, and with that look in Mr. Stark’s eyes his floodgates open and all the words he doesn’t want to say enter the conversation. “I look terrified because I am terrified. I don’t, sir, I don’t, ma’am, I don’t know what you want and I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt anyone and I don’t know how to not do that and I thought I could, I thought I could just, but you’re so-” he waves a hand at Tony and Pepper snorts a laugh into her wine glass, recapturing his attention.   
  
“So Tony, yes,” she says, like she’s inviting him to join in the joke. “He’s so Tony. And that’s a lot to hold out against.”   
  
“I was trying,” grates Tony, teeth clenched, “to be really good.”   
  
“And you’re lousy at it,” laughs Pepper, “seriously, Tony, you have like twelve love languages and half of them are giving people things and how many-” she turns to Peter, now, accusatory “How many versions of the latest Starkphone have you been given in the last 3 years?”   
  
“Five,” admits Peter, following this part of the conversation easily.   
  
“Five,” repeats Pepper, smugly. “Five, Tony. That’s not trying hard, that’s millennial courting behavior.”   
  
Tony huffs out a breath and bites back, “And not one car. Not one!  _ And _ I didn’t buy him an apartment for college next year.”   
  
“An apartment?” squeaks Peter.   
  
Tony turns to face him, face serious, “For security, you need one, it’s a thing, you can’t- not in the dorms, just think about it, okay? If you decide you really need college, which, you don’t, but you seem pretty stubborn about it. Apartment is still on the table,” he declares.   
  
Pepper snorts into her wine, takes a sip, and says, “So, okay, Tony, you can see where there could have been room for improvement.”   
  
“Fine,” admits Tony, “I already said I’m the monster, we know this, move on to fixing it already.”   
  
“You’re not a monster,” protests Peter, finding his footing in this weird shifting conversation. Tony glances over at him, and something on Peter’s face makes his glance turn into a long slow look. “You’re not, sir. You’re, Mr. Stark, you’re the best thing- it’s- working with you- you know so much and you do these big leaps of like- you’re lightyears ahead of the best and-”   
  
Ms. Potts clears her throat and murmurs, “Perfect. Handcrafted,” but neither her tone nor her eyes are mocking. She looks softly at Peter and says, “Yes. I agree. And Tony needs to hear it more often. And that’s part of why I’m not mad, Peter.”   
  
“Oh,” says Peter, in a very small voice.   
  
“Yeah,” breathes Tony. “She’s… yes.”   
  
“Tony is multifaceted,” states Pepper, leaning back and flicking her gaze slowly between the two of them. “He is- he’s complicated. And he- having you around- has made him better. I like him this way. I want to keep him this way. Which means I want to keep you here, Peter,” she says gently. “And I’m sorry this part is so hard on you. You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re amazing, you’re so good, and everything you want is, I promise you, exactly what he wants to give.”   
  
Peter thinks back to his fantasies and chokes a little, stammering, “I mean, probably- probably not like everything, ma’am.”   
  
She leans in and whispers, “Probably everything, Peter.”   
  
His gaze darts over to where Tony is sitting, holding his wine glass and looking out the window, giving them this moment and thinking who-knows-what thoughts. A muscle jumps in Tony’s jaw and Peter is reminded of all the lean and work-made muscle slammed into him, all the restraints torn off, the feel of Tony’s beard as it rasped against his lips. He can feel his dick, silent and terrified along with the rest of him, give a small twitch and he shuffles his limbs. Tony inhales and turns to face him and the look on his face arrests all movement in Peter. “And that’s not on the agenda for tonight,” he states quietly, his voice gone rough and raspy. He sips his wine. “Another night. First this.”   
  
“First this,” agrees Ms. Potts, refilling her wine glass from the bottle on the floor. Tony makes a noise and she smiles at him, “I got it, Tone, don’t worry, I can pour myself a glass. Down, boy.”   
  
She turns to Peter and says, “Tonight is for setting some sensible boundaries. And respecting those legal boundaries. Finding a way to safely do what you both want to do until you can actually do what you both want to do.”   
  
Peter pauses to think about this. “Like, what do you mean?”   
  
“Well for starters, no more touching, hugs only, hands at five and ten,” she says back. “Peter, you are just going to have to accept this until you are legal. It’s not  _ safe _ and it’s not fair, I get it, you’re just out of high school with all these fresh hormones, they’re dying to go race but they’re not street legal and I- we- can’t allow it.”    
  
She says the words kindly enough, her eyes sympathetic, but his own eyes fill with tears and he feels horrible, like a child who is being told he did something wrong and Tony says abruptly, “Yes, so, first off, do you even drive because it’s two and ten, and secondly, pause button on that one until the end of this conversation, I can’t sit here and not-” and Ms. Potts says, “Yes, go ahead,” and suddenly there are hands on the side of his face, strong, familiar hands, and his head is being roughly pulled up and over and his forehead is bumped by Tony’s.    
  
“Fuck, kid, the things I want to do to you,” he says, his voice rough again- or maybe still rough, maybe this is as hard for Tony as it is weird for Peter, for all this seems like the right thing to be doing. Maybe it’s still hard. Maybe this is what Mr. Stark meant by being good, though. “And if you asked, I would do them. I would do every single fucking one. So I need you-” and here he takes a weird, shaky breath, and then blows it out again, “I need you to help me out here, and  _ not ask right now _ .”   
  
Peter takes a deep breath and inhales the scent of Tony- Mr. Stark- Tony, and whispers, “Yessir, okay.” He finds his voice and says, “Okay. Okay, no touching okay. I can do that.”   
  
“Good boy,” whispers Tony, and places the gentlest kiss on Peter’s lips and Peter is definitely getting turned on, he can’t help it. He hasn’t forgotten Ms. Potts in the room and he’d bet Tony hasn’t either, but she’s not, it’s not, he starting to think it’s okay, really okay.   
  
“So that’s probably the biggest of the boundaries,” Pepper observes, “and the hardest. So let’s talk about, let’s find ways for you to have fun following it. You are both certified geniuses. Creativity is right up your alley. Brainstorm. Solutions.”   
  
Peter panics, he has no idea what she means, but Tony makes a humming noise of interest and asks, “Peter, you like asking permission? That’s, that’s a green go light for you?”   
  
And Peter gets hard hearing the BDSM terminology he’s only googled used in real life. Small cock twitches to full on boner in less than the blink of an eye, woo hoo super spider spit life. “Yessir,” he stutters, “Yes, Mr. Stark.”   
  
Pepper makes a quiet delighted noise and says, “Excellent.”   
  
“No, I- I got it, Pep,” interrupts Tony, waving a hand at her and replacing the hand on Peter’s chest, pushing him back until he’s back against the couch, bewildered and blushing and so fucking turned on. Tony points a finger at him and says, “You. Trouble. You will ask, and ask nicely, for permission to touch yourself, and I swear to Christ I will find it insanely hot and you will know that I find it hot. That’s our workaround. When’s your birthday again?”   
  
“Three- three weeks, Mr. Stark, sir,” stammers Peter, pupils blown.   
  
“No fucking around,” orders Tony. “You ask. I will know.”   
  
“Yessir, Mr. Stark sir,” breathes Peter.   
  
“And you have a normal three weeks, kid,” says Tony, “You go to parties with your friends, you kiss some hot guy or hot girl, whatever, you are a damn free agent, but you ask permission if you want to be touched, carry your damn phone, you hear me?”   
  
Peter thinks about that and nods cautiously.   
  
“Do you agree,” presses Tony, his dark eyes flashing, “Are those terms going to work for you?”   
  
Peter nods and Tony hisses, leaning in, practically crouching on the couch in front of Peter, “What was that?” he demands, but it comes out so fast, more whatwasthat and Peter’s whole body twitches and he spits out, “Yes, please sir, Mr. Stark, yes sir,  _ please _ .”   
  
The whole penthouse is silent for a moment and then Pepper whispers, “Perfect. Hot damn.”


	3. Chapter 3

At some point in the night- and they’re only up for another hour or two, hammering out details (like, “No photos, that is child pornography, Tony, I don’t care, you can wait three weeks. I know it’s arbitrary, but it’s how the system works and it’s in place for his protection. Against people like you. No, Peter, I wasn’t being serious and he knows that, you’re going to have to get used to our little jokes. Tony, learn patience.”), Pepper says, “Well, and this was a horrible example of a negotiation, he should really get educated on sub rights. Who do we know-” and Tony chimes in unison, “Kevin!” and they both laugh delightedly and Pepper checks Peter’s schedule against their schedules and shoots Kevin a request for the following Thursday, 6 PM.   
  
Peter floats between so hard he is leaking pre-cum and terminally confused all night, but finally Pepper sits back and says, “Well, it’s a start. Come to bed, Mr. Stark. Peter-” and she grabs for his foot, resting beside her on the couch, “-you sleep well. You are a delight. Team breakfast in the morning.”   
  
The whole room falls silent and her smile widens as he stiffens, his spidersenses going wild and jangling his nerves.   
  
Tony, straightening from his sprawl on the section nearest Peter’s, leans into Peter’s space, careful not to touch and somehow more menacing that way, and he says, “Thank her,” roughly and firmly.   
  
Peter starts, and remembers back to the beginning of the conversation, and smiles widely at Ms. Potts and tries to put all of his gratitude and affection into his voice and face as he says, “Ms. Potts, thank you so so much, thank you, ma’am, thank you.”   
  
“You, Mr. Parker, are welcome. I’m glad to welcome you. Be welcome.” It sounds like a gentle order, and he ducks his head in shy agreement. She stands and starts the short walk up to their bedroom at the top of the world.

Peter watches her go, and then turns to find that Mr. Stark has leaned back and is watching him, amazement on his face and a hand across his lips. Peter feels himself squirming, shifting uncomfortably under that familiar-not-so-familiar dark gaze, until Mr. Stark says quietly and with firm authority, “I don’t deserve this, or you, or her. But while I can, I am going to keep trying.”   
  
Peter nods. He feels the words press against his skin and sink in.    
  
“Peter,” says Mr. Stark, sharply, and Peter’s head snaps up and his heart starts racing, “Come for me once before you fall asleep.”   
  
Peter thinks about that, his heart pounding faster and faster as they stare at each other and carefully do not touch one another. He nods and says, just as fast, before Mr. Stark can demand it, “Yessir,” and he does not lower his eyes even one flinch.   
  
Mr. Stark smiles broadly and stands, whistling and walking in his girlfriend’s wake, and Peter gasps air.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to pop into the comments with encouragement! I won't handle criticism well, unless you and I have a baseline understanding, so I guess keep that to yourself or tell a friend, whichever one you want to do. Thanks for reading!


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